our electric hearts
by dualce
Summary: After a literal run-in involving gelato, Feliciano and Ivan slowly become friends after Feliciano realizes that Ivan isn't as bad as everyone makes him out to be, just misunderstood and a bit lonely. Eventual Russia/N.Italy. (Story is a little bit goofy and humorous with small bits of angst thrown in.)
1. Chapter 1

___Notes: de-anon from the kink meme. Request was for Russia and Italy to meet and slowly become friends, and then fall in love. Human names used. Goofy Italy POV and touristy scenes of Florence and a few small bouts of angst._

* * *

_our electric hearts_

Italy feels bad spilling his _gelato_. It's not a tragedy, like _La bohème_, true, but it's painful nonetheless, and there's a tremendous wave of sadness that overwhelms him as he watches the _pistacchio_ gelato – his favorite lately, although the _limone-menta_ and the _fragola_ and the _vaniglia_ and the _caffè _are also really good – drip out of the paper cup, smashed between his hand and Russia's chest. Mostly onto Russia's chest.

Russia, who is staring at him, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, immovable like a statue against all the tourists milling around them. The little plastic spoon in Italy's hand feels lonely. Italy feels sad about his ruined gelato, and stares at the glob on Russia's coat, which drips down and leaves a dark stain behind. Italy feels bad about that, too.

"_Ve ~ I'm so sorry!_" He says, and it sounds a little wobbly even to his ears, like he had been singing Rodolfo's part in the opera. The sweet taste of his gelato is fading, and the rest is a mess on Russia's coat. Russia is probably going to kill him for that, too, and Italy doesn't even get the benefit of a full cup of gelato before hand.

But Russia doesn't look angry, and when he opens his mouth _kolkolkol _doesn't come out like Italy expects. "It's fine," he says, a smile fixed on his face, and gestures to the shop behind Italy. "Do you want to get another one?"

The _gelateria_! Why didn't Italy think of that? He beams. "_Ve_~ Yes! Come on, I'll buy you one, too!" He latches onto Russia's wrist and pulls Russia inside.

Italy smiles at the owner, who just smiles back, not surprised to see him again. There are a few people in front of them, picking out flavors, so Italy bobs around them to get napkins for them to clean up, first of all. Secondly, the decision making process begins, and Italy makes sure to point out all the good flavors to Russia, so Russia can make a good selection and be happy and not kill Italy for ruining his coat.

Russia doesn't say anything. He's still smiling, but he looks pensive, a line creasing his brow. After a long moment he nods deeply, like he has just reached an incredibly important decision, maybe picking out Italy's gravestone or something, and orders _nocciola_ – hazelnut, so good! Italy claps his hand in agreement and gets that too, with a scoop of _pistacchio _again, to make up for his earlier loss.

They eat outside – there are no seats inside the tiny shop, of course, even though there seems to be a wide berth around him and Russia – and Italy savors his gelato like there is no tomorrow (which maybe, possibly, there almost _wasn't_). Russia seems to be enjoying his gelato, too, although maybe not as noisily as Italy.

"I'm sorry about your coat," Italy says again when they finish, because it never hurts to say sorry twice, and Russia smiles. He's still smiling. Or maybe he never stops, Italy wonders, and panics at the thought.

"It's fine," Russia says, and smiles some more.

"Okay!" Italy agrees, nervous, and expects Russia to leave. They've both finished their gelato, after all, and Italy can think of no reason for Russia to hang out any longer than he already has. Unless he wants more gelato.

"Do you want more gelato?" Italy asks, because Russia keeps smiling and not leaving.

Russia shakes his head no.

"Okay!" Italy says, and falters. What should he do? What would Germany do? No, actually, that would probably be bad. Besides, as Germany reminds Italy constantly, _Italy is not Germany_. He's said that a lot, recently, mostly when pushing Italy onto a train, back to his homeland. He's said it often enough that Italy is starting to think about what he's trying to say. (After all, he has time, on those train rides, to think.)

So it's not, _what would Germany do_, but what would Italy do? Thoughts take flight in Italy's mind, but never quite finish the trip, and he's halfway through the motions of making a small flag out of his gelato napkin when Russia simply says, "Thank you," and walks away.

"You're welcome!" Italy calls back automatically, and then shakes his head because that's what _he_ should be saying to _Russia_ and yells "Sorry about your coat!" because it never hurts to apologize again. And Russia just waves a hand at him and disappears around the corner.


	2. Chapter 2

___Notes:Fixing some minor errors and re-posting, gah sorry!  
_

* * *

_our fragile courage_

It takes Italy until the evening, already at home and making dinner, for him to realize that Russia is in _Firenze_, in his _country_, of all places! He startles badly when he realizes this, dropping a plate of _insalata_ on the floor, and has a moment of blind panic. He calls Germany, who is silent for a long time. (Seconds, maybe, but in Italy's defense it _feels _like hours.)

"He's not welcome there?" Germany asks, finally, and Italy has to think.

"No, no, it's okay, I guess. I mean, he's not trying to attack me, is he?" Italy starts taking deep breaths. If he is, he's done for! "I just bought him gelato!" Italy wails and clutches the phone with both hands. How could you even _want _to fight after gelato?

"Italy!" Germany's exasperated voice blares through the line. "He's not. Starting a. Fight. I'm almost certain. I'll double check, but perhaps...did you ask him what he was doing?"

"No, I was getting gelato from the nice man on _Via Ricasoli _and I couldn't decide between two flavors but then I finally did and then I went outside to eat because it was too crowded and the weather was nice and Russia was there but I didn't see him and my gelato got smashed and –"

"Italy!" Germany's loud voice cuts him off and Italy stops talking. Germany is taking deep breaths so Italy takes a breath too and waits for Germany to speak.

"Perhaps he's just...visiting?"

"Visiting?" Well. Yes. Of course! Who wouldn't want to visit his country? In May, it's beautiful, just the right weather – warm but not hot, and not too many tourists just yet, but still lots of things to do. Italy brightens. His grip on the phone loosens, and he sings to Germany, "_Ve~_thank you!"

"You're welcome," Germany says stiffly, always proper. "Please make sure to–"

Italy hangs up, relieved. Germany always has the best answers! He sets out to get some cleaning supplies to clean up the mess on the floor. It doesn't take him long to start thinking that if Russia is visiting, then Italy should definitely be his tour guide. The thought of Russia scares him, but the thought of showing him his wonderful country and people and food and history and art and language and music makes _that _thought less scary, and the thought of Russia missing out on something special, even the littlest of things, because Italy wasn't there to show him makes him sad and then all that thinking makes Italy hungry, and he never did have a chance to eat his salad before he dropped it. He makes a new one, sighing a little about all the good food wasted today.

Well, at the very least, Italy should offer to show him around, shouldn't he? It couldn't hurt, he decides. If Russia _was_ going to hurt him, it would have been after the gelato got on his coat, but he didn't hurt him, he ate more gelato with Italy and said _thank you _and really he wasn't that bad, not at all!

It's hard to find Russia, though. Italy calls his boss to ask for Russia's phone number, or the address of the hotel he was staying at, or even just the phone number of the hotel he was staying at. His boss never answers, so it's more like calling his boss' secretary. Which was more than okay, she was sweet and grandmotherly and laughed at Italy's flirtations and traded recipe tips with him occasionally.

She couldn't help him, though, and Italy thought about calling Germany, but Germany had instituted a once-per-day emergency phone call, and technically he was over the limit for the week. (Once because of Russia and the gelato, twice because Italy wanted Germany's opinion on a new painting, and three times because of a scary noise one night, which turned out to be a paper fluttering in front of the fan, but how was Italy to know that?)

So Italy calls Russia's boss, instead. (And why does Russia's boss answer, but not Italy's?) Russia's boss gives him the number to the hotel, eventually, although he is quiet and stern and asks Italy a lot of questions. (He hangs up in the middle of one of Italy's sentences, just like Italy's boss, though. That must be a boss-thing.)

So then Italy is happy, planning some things for him and Russia to do tomorrow. He goes to sleep feeling content, and doesn't hear any strange noises that night, so he sleeps very well.


	3. Chapter 3

_____Notes: All real places in Florence, btw! At least they were last year!  
_

* * *

_suddenly we jumped_

So the next day Italy calls the hotel and gets the address and walks over there, stopping to get a _cappuccino _for breakfast, and then because he is a little nervous and uncertain, stops again to get another one, and then it takes him no time at all to get to the hotel. He charms the hotel manager at the desk into giving him Ivan Braginski's room number, and darts up the stairs and knocks on the door before he changes his mind. He stands in the hallway and his knees are shaking but it's mostly the caffeine, he tells himself.

Italy can hear the _thump-thump _of someone walking through the room, and the door creaks open to reveal Russia standing there, a little smile on his face, which drops for a moment when he sees Italy.

"Italy?"

"Ciao!" Italy says, waving his hand in greeting.

"What are you doing here?" Russia asks slowly, and looks around the hallway before looking back at Italy. Russia is not smiling, for once, and Italy takes a step back and a deep breath.

"Well I wanted to say sorry again for your coat and if you want me to fix it, I will! And also if you're vacationing you should have told me! Why didn't you tell me you were here on vacation? I can show you all the best places and take you to the best restaurants! If you want. Do you have plans? Have you been to _Li Li's_ for a _panino_? Or _Zà-Zà's_ for their _gnocchi_? Are you hungry now? Because we could go! Do you want to go?" Italy pauses to breathe and also because he is rambling a little bit, but he can't help it, really. Russia makes him nervous.

Russia stares at him, and Italy makes himself stare back, even though his eyes start to hurt and then they start to water, and finally Russia blinks.

"No."

"No, what?" Italy asks him, confused.

"I haven't eaten at any of those places," he says, slowly again, like Italy might not understand him. Or like he might be going through the English words in his head, because he sounds a bit confused. (Italy understands, because sometimes he has to do that too.)

"Oh!" Italy claps a hand over his mouth. That is very sad, because they are Italy's favorite places to get paninni and gnocchi in Firenze. And _Li Li's_ is close by to the _Galleria dell'Accademia_ and then they can go there after and see _David! _

He announces all this to Russia. Russia doesn't say anything during Italy's speech, but after a moment, he smiles. It's little, and a little hesitant, but Italy takes this as a yes and grabs Russia's wrist, just like yesterday and propels him forward. Or _tries _to, but Russia barely moves.

Russia looks down at himself. "I will get my – a coat, first." He's just wearing a sweater and his scarf, and Italy thinks it's plenty. The weather is lovely, plus that coat makes him stick out like a tourist.

"No, no! With me, you're not a tourist!" Italy says, and smiles. "We will be inside, mostly, and it's beautiful out!" Italy waves his free hand in a wide arc, encompassing all of Firenze with this statement, and tugs on Russia's wrist with the other one.

Russia's little smile gets bigger when he smiles back.


	4. Chapter 4

_Notes: Human names starting here!  
_

* * *

_And on we raced_

It's when they're standing in the paninni shop and the shop owner is peering up at Russia over the counter that Italy realizes that there's no way to _not_ to mistake Russia for a tourist. He looms tall and pale and white-gold-blonde, and even the little old men, regulars in the shop, give Russia up-and-down looks. Italy has to smile at this, and hides it behind his hand. Russia is very polite to the shop owner, too, and even says _grazie _when he is handed his sandwich. Italy is very happy to see this unexpected side of Russia, and a little part of him feels even better about being Russia's tour guide.

They go see the famous _David_, which of course has crowds and crowds lining up around the grand marble sculpture, sneaking photographs and wandering around the figure in a circle to see every angle of Michelangelo's masterpiece. Although Italy likes it (how could you not?), it isn't his favorite work. He likes the smaller pieces in the artist's home _Casa Buonarroti_, where he can stand in relative solitude and admire the small terra cotta figures and imagine Michelangelo's hands pressing and molding the clay, creating form and _life _from shapelessness.

It makes him feel like he could do the same, even though Italy has slowly, over the centuries, come to the conclusion that he doesn't possess any unique _talent_ like any of his people do. He's good at copying – amazing at it, sometimes! – but he's not _original_. He's not capable of imagining something that isn't already there, or bringing something new into existence.

Ah – but he's thinking such negative thoughts, in front of David, standing rooted in one place while others brush by him. How long has he been standing there? Russia is still next to him, but he is not looking at Italy. He is staring at the statue with the same concentrated stare he was giving the gelato in the shop yesterday. It is very..._odd _to see him like this. Patient, thoughtful even.

"Russia?" Italy asks, nervous, and then jumps as he realizes his mistake. He looks around, but fortunately there are so many tourists and foreigners here that it is _loud_, no one hears him.

"Ivan," Russia says in an almost distracted tone, intently studying the sculpture.

"Feliciano!" Italy shouts in reply, and it's too loud, even in this room.

Ivan blinks and looks down at Feliciano, and his usual smile returns as he nods.

"There's still more to see!" Feliciano says, and tugs Ivan's sleeve. Ivan follows him around David, and Italy tries to let him have as much time to look as he wants, but there is also so much to see in the _Galleria dell'Accademia _that he doesn't want Ivan to miss any of it!

It's not hard to lead Ivan around. He follows Feliciano easily, and stops when Feliciano stops, and listens when Feliciano talks about processes or shapes or angles or even history, sometimes, when Feliciano remembers the first time he saw this, or the time he met a sculptor making that. (He's not supposed to, when he's out in public, but they're good stories!)

After that Feliciano takes Ivan to the _Spedale degli Innocenti_, because it's close by and there are less people there and there are still lots of good art pieces even if they're not as famous. Feliciano likes the small _Botticelli_in the main room, and Ivan seems to like the miniature saint's shrines that have little bones and teeth sewn into velvety fabrics and wrapped in gold, safely locked in glass cases and out of anyone's reach. At least, he seems to look at them a lot longer than rest of the art, but when Feliciano asks Ivan just shakes his head, his smile a little more twisted than usual. Feliciano doesn't mind them from a distance, but he suspects that if he could see them closer up he'd feel a lot more queasy.

He wants to take Ivan to the _Santissima Annunziata_, which is in the same square as the Children's Hospital. It's so heavy and baroque and gaudy, but Feliciano loves how different it is from the other cathedrals and chapels in Firenze, and there's hardly any people, so. It's a nice break from all the tourist-heavy spots, and then Feliciano can take Ivan to the _Piazza de Michelangelo _to see the fake David and also the city of Firenze on the overlook. There will be plenty of tourists there, but they can sneak a bottle of wine, maybe, and watch the city glow red as the sun sets.

Ivan is very willing to do all these things. He smiles and says he has no plans when Feliciano asks, and Feliciano chews his lip for a moment, wondering if he is missing some big clue to something. (How can you have no plans in Firenze, of all places?) Germany wouldn't know either, he's pretty sure, and Romano would tell him he was an idiot.

So Feliciano just takes Ivan to all these places and they split a bottle of wine and eat some bread and _prosciutto _and sit on the steps up to the square with all the other people, Americans and Canadians and Germans and Australians and the French, and listen to the busker play on the front steps – English songs, but his Italian accent is thick. There are lots of pictures being snapped as the sun sets behind the singer, and Feliciano wonders where Ivan's camera is.

He meant it as a joke, really, not to make Ivan feel out of place, just that he is used to Japan taking snapshots of every little thing. But Ivan gives him a look and shrugs.

"I remember it all here," he points at his head, and there's no way that can be true, Feliciano thinks. Maybe Ivan's memory is better than Feliciano's, though. How lucky for him!

Ivan doesn't talk much. He doesn't complain about the wine or the food, like Romano would, or the crowds, like Germany might. He mostly just listens to Feliciano talk – actually _listens_, asking questions in response to Feliciano's rambling, and he never yells at Feliciano to get back on track when he wanders off topic, which is nice. It seems like sometimes he's staring at Feliciano, but when Feliciano looks over he's tilting his head away – still smiling, though – and Feliciano makes sure to smile back.

"Thank you," Ivan asks abruptly as they walk down the hill back towards the center of Firenze, Feliciano indirectly steering them towards Ivan's hotel.

"Ve~ of course!" Feliciano says, a little tired from their busy day, but relaxed and happy and loose on his feet. "I enjoyed it! ~did you enjoy it?"

"Yes." Ivan says this very seriously, much like Germany would – Feliciano looks over, startled, and Ivan is smiling, but not at Feliciano. He is looking everywhere but at Feliciano, at the streets and shadows of Feliciano's city, and it's the most sincere smile he's seen yet.

"Ivan!" Feliciano latches on to Ivan's sweater sleeve with one hand. Ivan looks at him, surprised.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Feliciano says.

Ivan cocks his head. "I leave tomorrow evening."

"Oh," Feliciano says, disappointed, because the list of museums _alone_to visit is equal to a month's visit.

"But I have nothing until then?" Ivan adds after a moment.

Feliciano grins. "Oh _bene_! I will show you some more of Firenze ~ there is so much more to see!" He does a spin on the cobblestone street. "And food! You still need to eat some gnocchi, and some _aperitivos _would be delicious, and oh~!"

He talks about food the whole way to Russia's hotel, but Russia doesn't seem to mind.


	5. Chapter 5

_Notes: Actually, here's where the parts get angsty. They're figuring it out, though!  
_

* * *

_blue is the color of all colors_

It dawns on Feliciano, sometime between half-remembered dreams in the evening and frothy cappuccinos in the morning. The exhibit at the _Museo Degli Argenti! _It's perfect for Russia – the timing is a small miracle, like it's calling for them to go! He practically skips to the hotel, smiling cheerfully at the lovely girls sitting outside the cafes – tourists, in their pretty dresses, sketchbooks stuffed with notes and cards and drawings on the tables, and they smile back sleepily.

Russia – _Ivan_, Feliciano reminds himself, _Ivan Ivan Ivan_– seems more awake. He stands outside the hotel, still minus his jacket – Feliciano needs to check on that, should he take it to get cleaned while they're gone? – and matches Feliciano's smile.

"Ve~ Good morning! Did you sleep well? Have you eaten? Do you want coffee? We can get cappuccinos before we go!" Feliciano can always have another one. Even if he shouldn't. He tends to talk too fast after too much caffeine, and maybe his English gets a little shaky, rushed, words running into words.

Ivan shakes his head. "I am fine," he says in a serious tone, although he is smiling. "And you?"

"_Bene!_Are you ready to go? I know just where to start!" Feliciano grins, deciding on the spot to keep his idea as the last event of the day – a wonderful way to end Ivan's trip!

"Yes," Ivan nods his head, and moves to follow Feliciano.

Feliciano takes Ivan to a _modern_ art exhibit, first, to balance all the ancient art they've been looking at. It's good to see the past. The history of Italy vibrates with stunning frescoes and towering architecture, but Feliciano likes to think he's slowly catching up on modern art, that his nation is just as innovative and edgy as other countries, he's just a bit _slow_, is all. Everything moves slowly in Italy, but that's part of the charm, the appeal!

They look at Picasso, and Miró, and Dalí, and _the birth of modernity_, as the show's called, and Feliciano could happily spend an hour looking at one piece. This time he tries to be a better host, letting Ivan set the pace, wandering at a fairly steady rate – as much they can, through the clumps of tourists – pausing to read the placards, and Feliciano whispers little comments about the artwork, about things he can remember reading or hearing or learning. There are times when Ivan whispers back, and Feliciano stands on his toes to hear more about these artists and their ideas and their processes because every little bit helps him understand more. (And maybe, somehow, he can sneak a little bit of their wonder and liveliness and playfulness into his own art.)

The exhibit on the next floor is a little more difficult. Virtual artworks, on projects or screens or videos, and Feliciano finds himself puzzling over a piece, and then another piece, and another, as quiet as Ivan is when looking at art. They're _interesting_, but Feliciano misses the texture and the weight and the _presence_ of actual paintings and sculptures. Ivan, studying the works with him, feels _solid_, brushing against his shoulder occasionally, and sometimes Feliciano realizes with a start that he's gotten lost in a daydream, in front of a piece, and looks around for the other nation.

Once or twice he thinks Ivan's been staring at him, his gaze swinging away to look at a work just as Feliciano turns toward him. It's like this thing about the artwork – Feliciano can feel the heaviness of his stare, and then it's gone, like smoke, like a photograph projected onto a white wall. It doesn't feel dangerous, or threatening, like Feliciano has often imagined Ivan to be, but it's strange. It's like Ivan can't imagine him _there_.

They have _risotto_ and _ragú_for lunch, and Feliciano manages to get Ivan's opinion about the art they've seen.

Ivan taps his bottom lip thoughtfully and after a few minutes, admits to liking the colors of the Mirós the best. Russia's very quiet, Feliciano thinks, seeming content to listen to Feliciano ramble, and never even telling him to shut up. The only other nation that does that for Feliciano is Japan!

He does, however, tell Feliciano that he needs to get back to the hotel soon.

"But – I have time for one more museum," he says, his eyes, for once, not focused on Feliciano's face.

"Ve~ of course, I only planned one more stop!" Feliciano says, slightly mystified. Ivan told him when he was leaving, yesterday, and Feliciano planned according. He hadn't forgotten!

"Ah – I see. Good." Ivan nodded, and his smile appears again.

So Feliciano drags him to the _Museo Degli Argenti_ with enthusiasm. His perfect last visit, he thinks. _El Tesoro Del Cremlino_– the Treasure of the Kremlin! Gorgeous silver, gold, and precious materials, finely made swords, helmets, artifacts, jewelry – all from Russia!

Ivan takes a deep breath as they enter, and Feliciano feels the same sense of awe drawing his breath away. It _was_a good idea, and Ivan is feeling as strongly as Feliciano does! These things are so incredibly beautiful, and here they were on display in Italy!

"Ve~ isn't this great!" Feliciano said happily. "We're –"

Ivan looks at him, eyes hard. _Russia_is looking at him, but smiling at the same time, and Feliciano steps back.

"We're sharing?" Feliciano finishes more quietly, and swallows. He blinks, and Russia is gone, Ivan staring back at him.

"Sharing?" Ivan says, the smile on his face widening, and his gaze softens just a shade.

"Y-yes!" Feliciano nods vigorously. "It's on loan from the Hermitage." He clenches his hands together. He'd thought Ivan would like it, but maybe he's wrong. Is he wrong? He can't tell, Ivan's face looks happy, but Feliciano doesn't think he is.

"Ah," Ivan breaths out, and his eyes drift to a gleaming helmet, heavy with silver and brocade, and his features sharpen. "Why not? You'll be one with Russia eventually, yes?"

Feliciano flinches. What – who _is_this? It's Russia again, not Ivan.

Ivan – Russia? – shrugs as if it's a joke and walks further into the exhibit. Feliciano follows him, even if it's a bad idea to do so, even if his knees are shaking. (He always has to follow bigger, stronger nations, doesn't he? Like he is a tugboat in the wake of a steamer, bobbing along.)

What did he do? Feliciano is confused, and a little scared. Why is Ivan acting like – not himself?

Ivan is walking through the exhibit, from case to case, barely stopping for a moment in front of each, hardly enough time to fully appreciate what's inside the glass. And Feliciano follows him like a shadow. He doesn't _get_Ivan, doesn't understand. Why would he not like these things? They're so lovely, richly engraved, perfect in craftsmanship.

Ivan is stopped in front of a sword, sheathed and gleaming in a case. It looks unused, untouched, cold and astonishingly detailed.

"Do you know..." Ivan speaks in a low voice, and Feliciano creeps up to stand next to him, so he can hear the soft words. "Do you know how many artisans it took to make this?" Before Feliciano can guess, Ivan continues. "Do you know how many people starved for this sword?"

Feliciano's mouth drops. The ornamental sword shines, brightly lit, jewels and all.

"Ivan –" Feliciano whimpers, but when he turns, Russia is walking away, scarf trailing from bis broad shoulders, hands clasped behind him.

Feliciano's heart thunders in his chest and his knees tremble. Ivan – Russia – oh, Feliciano's chest is _so _tight, he can barely breathe, or move. He places a hand against his chest and tries to slow his breath, tries to stop the thumping of his heart.

Oh, _Ivan._

Feliciano runs after him, barely slowing down at the sharp call from an attendant – shouldn't run through museums, he knows, but the Palace wasn't a museum back in his day! He thinks furiously - and catches Russia starting up the hill to the _Boboli_ gardens.


	6. Chapter 6

_Notes: angst! and then hugs!_

* * *

_if you want to go on you need to know your roots_

The Boboli gardens are large, and green, and Feliciano wishes a little that the flowers were still blooming so it would be even lovelier. And also so there'd be a little more to look at, but it's still nice, and Feliciano doesn't stop to admire the trees or the arches wrapped in vines before he catches up to Ivan.

Something is not right and Feliciano has to fix it. It's his duty as a host and – _and_, Feliciano pauses.

He'd hurt Ivan, but he hadn't _meant_ to, and he's not sure how to fix this, this is worse than the gelato, at least the gelato didn't bring up bad memories. Is that what Ivan meant by remembering everything? Feliciano's chest hurts just thinking about it. What Ivan must have remembered, seeing those things –

Oh, _Ivan_, Feliciano thinks again.

Ivan – Russia – hasn't said anything yet, but Feliciano can see the edge of his smile, twisting towards something awful, and Feliciano can feel his heart break again.

"As wonderful as our visit has been, I believe I have to be getting back, yes?" Russia grips his hands behind his back and smiles, if that can count as a smile, and he's so – everything is _wrong_. This is not the Ivan who snuck glances at Feliciano in the galleries, who listened to Feliciano's stories about food, who discussed artists and mediums and concepts and never once told Feliciano to shut up, even when he was talking for an hour about food.

"_Oh no_," Feliciano blurts, and Russia looks startled. Feliciano _has_ to make it up to him, he truly does, not just as a host, but as a _friend_.

"No, I'm sorry, I mean, _now_?" Feliciano flails. "But, but, we just got started! I wanted to –" He feels tears well up, tries to hold back, but then he's crying.

Feliciano has never been afraid to cry. He's not afraid of his emotions or looking like a fool or being seen as stupid. He does occasionally use tears to his advantage – only when absolutely necessary! plus, Romano does it _too_ – and he knows that people (_nations_) think he is overly emotional, but Feliciano can't help _feeling_. And while every feeling is true, it's not always _intense_, because that's the kind of crying Feliciano doesn't like to do. The ugly, gasping kind of crying, like when someone's _nonna_ passes away, or a favorite _gatto_ gets hit by a car, or your best _amico_ never comes home from war.

"Italy?" Russia asks, uncertainty in his voice.

And he's doing it _in front of Russia_, who doesn't feel like Feliciano does, but then he does, doesn't he? He feels just as much as everyone else – Feliciano just never had to chance to see it before. Never took the time to see it. And that makes Feliciano cry harder, and when he looks up at Ivan, Russia just looks confused, head tilted to the side, that fake smile plastered on his face, but his pretty violet eyes are distressed.

"...Feliciano?" Russia's hands twitch like he wants to _something_, but doesn't know how.

Feliciano lunges forward and buries his face in Ivan's chest. He's not supposed to jump on people, but he needs a hug, to be comforted, to touch and be touched.

The words bubble out of him, muffled by the fabric of Ivan's sweater. "Sorry! Sorry, I thought you would like the exhibit, I thought it was amazing, all those pieces, so small and detailed! And it was nice to see your art in my home, in Italy, and to know my things are over in your home, and it's like we're sharing, and, and, I thought that was nice."

Feliciano stops himself, but he doesn't let go. If his words don't make sense, maybe his actions will. Feliciano peeks up at Ivan's face, blinking the tears from his eyes. He gets that Ivan's not happy about his history. Everyone – every nation – has reason to feel that way. All those pieces were swords and helmets and idols, even though they glowed so prettily in the light, they were all artifacts of blood and dynasties and subjugation.

Russia's looking at him, jaw set, violet eyes dark. He has no idea what he is thinking but Feliciano wants it to be _Ivan_ looking at him – sweet, hopeful Ivan!

"I thought – I didn't know you'd remember. I don't want to bring you bad memories, I want this trip to be fun. I want to have fun with you, Ivan!" Feliciano hiccups, snuffling his nose against Ivan's chest.

Ivan is big and solid and not soft at all, okay maybe a little around the waist, but it's nice. Feliciano doesn't know about how Ivan feels, but the hug is making him feel better, and maybe it's making Ivan feel better too.

"I'm sorry," Feliciano manages one more time. Russia closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Ivan looks at him. He looks confused, still, but there's also a part of him that is unreadable. Tense, uncertain, but not angry anymore, at least.

"I..." He falters, then cautiously moves his hands further down so he's encompassing Feliciano in a hug, watching Feliciano closely the whole time.

Feliciano feels his face burst into a smile, and he wraps himself more tightly around Ivan. He _gets_ it now. Ivan is a friend. _Needs_ a friend. And Feliciano will be better and more sensitive, now that he knows Ivan is just like any other nation.

"Thank you," Feliciano says, and Ivan's eyes widen.

"For...what?" He says. "I should...I," he stops, hands tightening, perhaps unconsciously, on Feliciano's waist.

Feliciano shakes his head _no_. "Thank you for giving me this second chance! Next place we go, it won't be like this! I promise!"

Ivan's eyes soften, but then he looks uncertain.

"I'm leaving for my flight," he says, and Feliciano droops.

"Oh," he says, and steps back from Ivan finally. Ivan's chest has a medium-sized wet spot in the center of it, and Feliciano brushes at it absently.

"Well, next time...next time you come to Italy, I'll definitely show you around! There's so much else to see and do!"

Ivan nods slowly, watching Feliciano's hands brush at his chest and then drop away. "Yes," he said, rearranging his scarf so it covered his chest. "I'd like that."

Feliciano grins. "Ve~ it's a promise!" He hugs Ivan again, and this time Ivan is quicker to hug him back.

"I'll walk you back to your hotel!" Feliciano says as he pulls back.

"Thank you," Ivan says, and something in his tone makes Feliciano stop for a moment. It's sincerity, Feliciano thinks as he tucks an arm through the other nation and leads him out of the garden.

He squeezes Ivan's arm and Ivan looks down at him. When Feliciano smiles, Ivan slowly smiles back – a true smile, this time.

And when Feliciano drops him off at the airport, he hugs him extra long and hard, to make up for the days or weeks they won't see each other.


	7. Chapter 7

_Notes: A short Russia POV._

_Sorry to be posting so much, this story is mostly finished and I just want to get it off my computer so I can move on to something else!  
_

* * *

_alone with the black spirits_

If anyone had pressed him – and hardly anyone would dare to – Russia would say he had gone to Italy to see the architecture. Romanesque, Renaissance, and Rococo and all styles in between, built side by side, like pins placed haphazardly on a map with no arrow to orient oneself.

He feels a similar loss of direction in Florence. Sometimes he has to push his way through throngs of tourists packed into the open _piazzas_, but sometimes he is alone in narrow streets, surrounded by walls the color of raw earth, swathes of color like paint an artist's canvas – burnt umber here, raw sienna there – and even when he pauses to lean against the thick doorways, fortified against armies centuries ago, the thin slivers of blue sky above do nothing to help him find his way.

It's true enough – he likes architecture. It's useful, practical and functional, yet, it always has some sort of ornamentation. People can't help but make the things around them beautiful, in Italy, and Russia appreciates that. He likes looking at pretty things, things that aren't tarnished, things that serve no purpose but to make people's lives a little more _nice_.

And yet – it's also not _quite_true. Russia's here in Italy because – and here his mind stalls, disperses into a hundred directions, no map to plot his course. He knows he was in the plane, descending down to the Florence airport for a layover, and the space between then and the cab ride into the city is a blurred smudge, a black streak across his memory.

(Russia doesn't question these things anymore. He takes what he wants, or accepts what he gets, depending on the state of his mind. Mostly, he is glad he can recognize the difference between these two views, now.)

He doesn't mind as much as he should, probably. Of all the places to end up, at least it's here – for one, he _likes_Italy. Just a little. Not like – politically or geographically or economically. No, not like that.

He just likes Italy, beautiful Italy, honest and genuine in his emotions, and always smiling, but _his_ smiles aren't terrifying, and one would assume Russia would be jealous of that. But he's awed – awed that Italy can so freely bestow these brilliant smiles, but most of all, he's amazed that he's _just_ Italy. Not anything else, or so it seems. He's not oppressed by his history, or arrogant with power. He just _is_, simple and sincere, no hidden agenda.

Their meeting had been a fluke, although Russia does not believe in such things. Of the thousands of places Italy could have been in his country, they meet in Florence. Not _quite_ the most opportune moment, Russia sees, looking at his coat, now stained with something. Ice cream? No, what is it in Italian..._gelato_, yes.

Italy doesn't run. He looks teary-eyed up at Russia, but it's a look he often wears, and it seems to be more about the gelato than anything. Perhaps it's a symptom of his visit, feeling lost and a little blinded by the colors and the light and the narrow press of buildings, but Russia feels compelled to resolve the situation. That is easy enough, right? All one has to do is simply replace the thing. And gelato is so simple, so easy to obtain. So he offers, and Italy accepts, and it's nothing more.

Except that it _is_. Italy shows up at his hotel door the next morning, nervous and twisting, always moving, words tumbling out of his mouth so fast that Russia cannot keep up. He parses down the run-on sentences until he can find one he can answer comfortably.

And Russia finds himself following Italy, who takes it upon himself to show Russia his city. And he loves it, it's clear to see, the pride and the happiness and the joy of sharing plain on his face, and sometimes it hurts to look at him, so Russia makes himself look more, to memorize the detail of his face, the expressions, the occasional flash of amber eyes.

Most especially, he clings to the feeling of Italy's touches. A tug on his sleeve, a pull on his elbow, a knock of knees on the steps overlooking the city. The space around him, usually unoccupied and avoided, is filled with Italy. Italy, who freely spins in and spins out of Russia's orbit, like an exuberant little ship that isn't bound to the laws of gravity.

Russia feels weightless, sometimes, too – when Italy is whispering a story about an artist in his ear, when he is grasping his wrist to drag him to another museum, when he is deep in thought in front of a piece of art, normally happy expression gone serious. Russia can feel his heart flex in a way that should frighten him, if he paid more attention to it.

Why did Italy choose _him_?

Why does he _stay_?

Even when Russia drops back to earth, brought back sharply by the antiquated _treasures_glittering in their protective cases – oh, how they shine, even when Russia has seen them covered with blood – and Italy flits in and out of Russia's periphery, oblivious, and Russia cannot stop the memories coming back, the ones he told Italy he never forgot.

(He has too many of them, and so few of them good.)

And the words that come out would make a lesser nation cry, or shake in terror, and Italy does. He shakes, and he cries, but it's not like it usually is, because then he's hugging Russia. He won't let go. The front of Russia's sweater is soaked, and Italy squeezes tightly around his midsection, and Russia does not know where to put his hands. He hardly knows what to think – this time his space is well and truly invaded, and most bewildering, _willingly_.

And when Italy finally lets him go, he just smiles, and Russia is lost, again. Florence is a maze to him, shadows and colors and light and Italy's smile, honest and trusting.

Russia tries to smile back, and he must do something right, because Italy beams up at him bigger. He doesn't leave him until he's boarded the plane, and even then Russia had been hugged until he had almost forgotten how extraordinary it was to be touched.

But he doesn't forget, he holds onto the memory and keeps it as long as he can. Even if he cannot understand it.


	8. Chapter 8

_Notes: moving slowly towards sweeter pastures! but what will the other nations think of Russia and Italy getting friendly with each other?_

* * *

_undoing the damage of haste_

If there had been any doubts in Feliciano's mind about the potential for disaster by committing to be Ivan's friend – verbally or not, once Feliciano gets an idea in his mind it's harder to separate it than day-old spaghetti dried in a pan – they fade away as soon as Feliciano mentions Ivan one evening to Ludwig and Kiku, and Ludwig instantly stiffens.

That wasn't surprising enough to enter Feliciano's radar, and neither is Kiku's slow turn towards him, but it's both of them at once, looking at him in earnest, that makes Feliciano squirm a little under the intensity of their stares.

They'd been looking around the art galleries – contemporary ones, the kind that Feliciano sort of dislikes, where the owners assess you with an up and down look as much as they assess possible new talented artists, but it's good to see what kind of new ideas are out there and Feliciano can usually charm a begrudging smile back on their faces – and their discussions about the pieces were giving Feliciano a flashback, and Ludwig had made some comment that had sounded so familiar – _just _like Ivan! – and the words had popped out and then the critical eyes had turned towards him.

Ludwig has that _look_– the one where it seems like just the sight of Feliciano is causing him pain, or maybe he has a bad case of indigestion. And Kiku looks like he always does, mysterious and indecipherable, except that Italy can see the little frown line that appears when he's worried set between his eyes, hidden as they are behind his black hair.

"How are we _alike_," Ludwig says, and although it might be meant as a question it's not really phrased like one, so Feliciano hurries on explaining, "I meant that he liked the modern things best, you know the abstract ones, especially the color field ones –"

Feliciano is starting to think about color fields and abstraction instead of the topic at hand when Ludwig clears his throat and interrupts his thought process.

"Then. Russia did come to visit?"

"Ve~ yes! We went to the museums, and ate on the piazza, and had gelato, and _ohhhh_, we should get some gelato! Do they have gelato here? We also had panninis –"

"I see," Ludwig says curtly, and turns away to lead them to another gallery.

Kiku nods his head, too, although his gaze lingers a little longer on Feliciano. As they follow Ludwig, who is not _quite _marching but looks like he might like to, he leans toward Feliciano and says in an undertone, "And the visit went...well?"

"Oh, yes! Ivan liked Firenze very much! Well, for the most part. He didn't like the _Museo Degli Argenti _but that was kind of my fault, I didn't realize about the swords and weapons, but that's okay, we got through it! And he's very nice, not bad at all, he's very respectful and he never yelled, and he wasn't scary at all!"

Ludwig chooses at that moment to stop and Feliciano nearly runs into him, stepping hard on the backs of his sandals – thank goodness his socks are there to take the brunt!

"Ve~ sorry!" Feliciano's voice trails off as Ludwig shakes his head and stomps into the gallery. Feliciano turns to look at Kiku. "What's wrong?"

Kiku shakes his head slightly. Feliciano has finally learned after these years that he shakes his head not at Feliciano, or at Ludwig, but mostly at situations involving the two, when cultures or attitudes or cultural attitudes make understanding each other a little complex.

"It's..._good _your visit with Russia went well," he says slowly.

Feliciano nods in agreement and smiles. He likes it when things are good, when food is fresh and the wine is sweet, when no one yells at him and everyone gets along, those are Feliciano's favorite times.

Kiku looks into the window of the building where Ludwig is for a long moment and then turns back to Feliciano. "Russia is difficult for some nations to understand," he says quietly and then steps back, raising his camera.

Feliciano nods again and leans against the building, letting Kiku take a photo. Kiku is very smart about something things, Feliciano has learned. He knows it's true. Ivan doesn't have any friends, that's probably a reason why, right? But if they took the time to get to know him they'd definitely see otherwise!

Feliciano smiles as Kiku turns the camera to him and thinks of the last time he saw Ivan with someone who would qualify with a friend. It's hard to remember, because he only sees Ivan at world meetings, and they're so _boring_ most of the time he drops off into sleep unintentionally. But most nations don't look like they want to be _near _Ivan, even the ones that are supposedly his allies.

If anything, this makes Feliciano resolve to be even more of a friend to Ivan. One _good _friend, he thinks, makes up for having none.

With this in mind he mails a small painting – it's more of a quick watercolor of some flowers, kind of like a prep sketch for a finished piece, but he thinks Ivan would like it. It is soft around the edges, and bright, a splash of fleeting, insubstantial color. He tacks a little note onto it – _what are your favorite kind of flowers?_– and sends it off. Most likely, he'll see Ivan in person before he gets a note back, at the next world meeting. Still, it might be nice to start a written correspondence. It's very lovely to get handwritten notes, to hold a physical object in your hand and to study the curves of letters to see if they hold just as much meaning as the contents of the sentences and paragraphs.

It's a good beginning, and when Feliciano sees Ivan in a week for the world meeting, he can get to know him even better.


	9. Chapter 9

___Notes: a world meeting. if you look closely you can see my love for Romano showing through. :)  
_

* * *

_starred like our spirits_

Feliciano's not all that interested in reading the agenda for the meeting today, although when Romano keeps shoving the folder back into his hands and eventually whacks him on the head with it, he takes it from his brother and skims through it. Mostly, he's excited about seeing Ivan and asking him if he wants to spend the evening together – actually, maybe the next _two_, since it's a three day event.

It's too bad the meeting isn't being held in Italy, the northern _or _southern part, so Feliciano can show Ivan around again. But this way, he thinks, they can explore a new city together!

Feliciano makes sure to do a very good job of being polite and greeting all the nations he sees in the hallway, lest Romano think he's not being professional or a good leader and tries to report him to his boss – not that his boss seems to care, he just tells Feliciano not to make any decisions on his own – until he sees Ivan standing at a distance, polite smile fixed on his face and his neighbors Estonia and Latvia next to him.

Feliciano makes a delighted sound and runs forward, ignoring Romano's squawk of protest. "Ivan!"

Ivan's eyes dart to him and smile slips ever so slightly into something more natural. "Hello, Fel –" he starts and stops when Feliciano leans up on his tiptoes to wrap his arms around the larger nation in a hug.

Feliciano holds on until he feels one hand pat him awkwardly on his back, then releases to bounce back on his heels. Ivan doesn't look any different, a stiff smile on his face, although his eyes drift from gazing off somewhere to meet with Feliciano's, and they seem to brighten up a bit.

"Ve~ how are you?"

"Good," Ivan replies politely. "And you?"

"I'm wonderful!" Feliciano grins even larger than before, and Ivan's smile stretches wider, too.

"Good," he says softly, and Feliciano's about to ask him if he wants to go out that evening when someone coughs behind them.

"Um. The meeting's about to start?" Lithuania's appeared next to the other Baltics, and gestures toward at the door, looking hesitantly between the two of them.

Feliciano smiles at him – Lithuania is so helpful! "Okay~ should we go?" He tugs on Ivan's sleeve – his coat is so nice and clean, minus the stain! – and Ivan follows him into the room.

"We should sit next to each other!" Feliciano says brightly.

Ivan blinks. "I...think we have assigned seats, yes?"

"Oh," Feliciano says, deflating. It would have been nice to sit next to his friend. Plus, they could pass notes!

"Perhaps –" Ivan starts to say something when Romano latches onto Feliciano's arm, snarls, "_Get over here_," and begins to drag him away.

"See you after the meeting!" Feliciano waves with his free arm, heels skidding along the floor, and Ivan, frowning, nods slightly in return.

"What. The. _Hell_," Romano hisses in his ear as they sit in their assigned seats.

"Sorry...?" Feliciano squints at Romano, who looks like his usual (angry) self.

"_Why_do you want to sit with Russia. Is something going on? Did you talk to the boss lately? Why wasn't I told, if there's some sort of political –"

"Did someone say _boss_?"

Feliciano feels an arm fall over him, and his head clunks into Romano's as Spain hugs them together.

"Ow~"

"_Bastard_, get off! We're not talking about you!"

"Oh?" Spain doesn't let up, but nudges his head in between them and then holds them more tightly. His dark hair tickles Feliciano's face, and Feliciano hugs him back since he hasn't seen Spain in _ages_and Spain gives really good hugs, too.

Spain lets go abruptly as Romano forcibly shoves him backward, but he's smiling, laughing a bit at Romano's red face. Romano unleashes a torrent of swear words at Spain, and Feliciano winces at his brother's bad language. It's a little unprofessional, he thinks, especially after all the lectures he's gotten. (But try telling that to Romano.)

"Romano~," Feliciano tries to cajole his brother into calming down.

Romano ignores him and points a finger at Spain. "Go. Away."

Very opportunely – and Italy is beginning to think his friend has a sixth sense about these things! – Germany announces the beginning of the meeting, and Spain pats Romano on the head, oblivious to the rage emanating from Romano, before wandering away to his own chair.

Feliciano and his brother swivel back in their seats and Feliciano turns his attention to the front of the table. There's Germany at the podium! He waves, but Germany doesn't see him, so Feliciano waves harder until Romano grabs his hand and brings it to the table with a thump.

"Ow~," Feliciano says for the second time today, and Romano leans toward him.

"What is going on with Russia?" He hisses.

Feliciano turns quickly, and cranes his head to see over the blonde nation sitting next to him. Ivan is sitting across the table from him, but at an angle, so Feliciano's looking more at his profile then directly at him.

"I don't know! Is he okay?" Feliciano whispers back. Ivan glances over at him and Feliciano raises his hand in an anxious little wave. Ivan hesitates, then lifts a hand at him, and Feliciano sits back, relieved.

"I think he's fine!" Feliciano says, turning back to his brother.

Romano stares at him, wide-eyed, and then shakes his head. "That's not –" he sucks in a breath through his teeth and mutters something under his breath. "_Why_ are you talking to _him_?"

Feliciano picks up his pen and opens his folder. Maybe he can work some sketches while he's here. That reminds him, did Ivan get his little painting? He should remember to ask! "We're friends!" he says cheerfully, and next to him, Finland spins in his seat and gives Feliciano a wide-eyed look.

Feliciano smiles at the Nordic nation and starts to sketch, humming under his breath. He's not even annoyed when Romano bumps his arm, and shows him a note that reads: _WHAT?!_ and then questions his mental faculties with a _have you lost your mind?_

Feliciano wrinkles his nose in response to his brother and shrugs. Romano just pinches the bridge of his nose before huffing and turning back to his notes. At least he isn't as bad as Germany, although Feliciano thinks Ludwig will get over it soon. (He's made a mental note not to compare the two, that seems to be the worse offence.)

The rest of the meeting goes by slowly, and Feliciano dozes off once as a procession of speeches continues, waking up from a lovely dream about pasta – which earns him several glares and a "Shut _up_!" from Romano, which is so unfair since Romano probably wants pasta too.

Slowly but surely the speeches denigrate into arguments, and finally an exasperated Germany closes the session for the day.

Feliciano drags himself up with a yawn and a stretch and idly looks around. There's Ivan, standing up from his seat, and he is looking around smiling, too, like he is searching for someone to talk to. Feliciano heads toward him, ignoring the other nations, some of who turn toward him. Oh well~ let Romano be in charge for once!

Ivan is heading towards America, of all nations, smile growing sharper, and Feliciano hops in front of him.

"Pasta!" He says cheerfully, and Ivan looks – not startled, but a little uncertain.

"...Yes?" He says, like he's not sure what he's agreeing to.

"For dinner!" Feliciano clarifies, and Ivan pauses.

"With...us?" he says, and Feliciano nods.

"Somebody say dinner?" America steps up next to Feliciano, a smile on his face. He drops an arm around Feliciano's shoulder and looks down on him. "Where are we goin'?" He asks with a wink.

"Oh~" Feliciano looks from America to Ivan, and Ivan looks – well, not exactly friendly, even if he's still smiling. But it's hard to say no to America (to anyone, honestly) even though Feliciano can guess that inviting him to dinner with him and Russia wouldn't be good for anyone, really, so instead he smiles and says, "For business?"

"Uh," America doesn't turn his head, but his eyes shift towards Ivan and back to Feliciano. "Yeah, of course. Right?"

"Oh, then Romano's the one to talk to!" Feliciano slips out from under America's arm, not before giving it a reassuring pat, and waves towards his brother. "He's over there, with the paperwork!"

America looks surprised. He glances over at Romano, who is doing a very bad job at ignoring all of them and glares back at America. Then at him, and then very briefly at Ivan, and then again at America for good measure.

"Um, but. Huh?" America says, scratching his head.

Feliciano tucks an arm through Ivan's and smiles a goodbye at America. "Okay, let's go!" He says to Ivan, and tugs him towards the door.

Ivan lets himself be pulled along and smiles a goodbye at America, too, who looks a bit put out and scowls back.

"Where are we going?" Ivan says in a measured town when they're out on the street, and Feliciano pulls out his phone.

"I have a friend!" He confides, and Ivan narrows his eyes, looking vaguely irritated, for some reason.

"From Italy," Feliciano leans in to say, and leads the way.

"Ah, I see," Ivan says when they're standing in front of the Italian restaurant a few blocks away, and when Feliciano squeezes his arm, still linked together, Ivan squeezes back.


	10. Chapter 10

_Notes: Another short Russia POV - last one for this series. These parts are always a little sad, I know. I like the idea of Russia as deeply flawed, kind of tragic (but not crazy!) character. He's very capable of feelings! They just aren't expressed in a normal manner. Just my thoughts, though - you can interpret him any way you want!  
_

* * *

_the silence deepened_

The months after Italy offer Russia solitude, an opportunity to step back, to analyze past events with the clarity of distance and time. He thinks about Feliciano every day, enough that perhaps he should be worried about becoming obsessive and paranoid.

But something is different. There's no hard edge of fixation, just...softness. Gentle, as much as he can be. Small recollections. The curve of his smile, the stripes on his shirt, the taste of all the meals they shared. His touches, his hugs, his tears. Tears _for_ Russia, not because _of_him.

Has that ever happened before? He doesn't think so.

He misses Feliciano.

His boss sends him to some meetings. _Be strong_, he says, _show the world Russia's strength. Show no weakness. Show no fear._ It's the same political posturing as usual: _we have more energy reserves than you, more gas, more minerals, more this and more that._

It's a rote order, and Russia nods mechanically in agreement. Of course, he will do as he's always done.

His mind wanders when his boss his speaking and he thinks about Feliciano, and his natural kindness, and how he can lead others by simply offering some part of himself.

Maybe Russia can smile like that. Can't he?

He can't.

A little painting arrives in the mail, loopy script dedicated to him, and Ivan feels his heart tremble in his chest.

Feliciano does not stop offering gifts, and Russia is – grateful is not the right word, but he doesn't think he will ever be able to describe it, not even to Feliciano.

He smiles.

Italy – _Feliciano_ – Feliciano is hugging him, again, and Russia wonders if his shock is mirrored on the faces of the other nations. Some of their faces are slipping from surprise to an ugly kind of speculation, and Russia freezes the smile on his face as he hugs back. He is receiving – _willingly given_– affection from Feliciano and they are not, and that is enough to make the smile on his face grow sharper. They do not know what they are missing, he thinks.

(_He_knows – he missed it for several long, aching, lonely months.)

The meeting is a bore, and Russia is careful not to look at Feliciano – only the once, when the Italian demands it with furious waving – because he cannot stand the looks from the other nations. (He doesn't want them to _know_, he thinks, he doesn't want them to _have_what he and Feliciano have.)

Most are careful to hide their distrust or their suspicion, but a few don't. _Those_are the ones Russia respects. The rest –

He tightens his hand around Feliciano's, tucked into the crook of his arm, and takes him away from their sight.

Feliciano is his for the evening.

(Ivan smiles.)


	11. Chapter 11

_Sorry this took so long! I wanted to add in an extra part and expand a little more upon Ivan and Feliciano's relationship, so it took me awhile to write a brand new chapter. I'm not a hundred percent satisfied, but oh well. Can't sit on top of it forever, I guess!_

* * *

_an old and new consciousness of time_

Feliciano can't stop the grin that takes over his face as they are shown to their small, narrow table. Ivan's knees – his legs are so long! – bump into Feliciano's, underneath the table, and when Ivan looks apologetic Feliciano just grins and lets his leg settle comfortably against Ivan's. (There's nowhere else for them to go, after all!) The entire restaurant is small, seating only about twenty, maybe twenty-five, and it is full of friends and couples and everyone is cozily packed into the softly lit, warm room.

In short, his friend's place is wonderful!

Ivan's eyes are circling around the room, fingers plucking at the edges of the menu, and Feliciano is glad he gave Ivan the seat in the corner, against the wall, while he took the chair that faced outward, his back to the room. He's confident he knows enough about Ivan's peculiar habits now to say that Ivan wouldn't be happy on this side of the table!

Within moments, their waiter appears, and Feliciano speaks a few quick words with him – English, since he's not originally from Italy – and the man nods before leaving the table, not doing more than giving a welcomingly look at Ivan.

"Don't worry!" Feliciano says at Ivan's bemused look. (He doesn't look mad, which is good!) "I ordered _crostini_ in _agrodolce _to start! It's so good! You like bell peppers and onion, _sí_? Well even if you don't, you'll like this. And if not, we'll get something else! Do you want another appetizer?" He hurries to add.

Ivan smiles slightly. "No," he says, and pauses before adding quietly, "I trust you." His lips quirk awkwardly, as if he knows what he says is a joke, but also not, and Feliciano reaches a hand forward to pat his large fingers.

"Of course you do! You should when it comes to food!" Feliciano waggles his eyebrows a little, playfully pretending his taste is superior. (Maybe only when it comes to food, Feliciano thinks!) "I promise, you won't be disappointed! Don't even look at the menu," he said, leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially. "Everything Stefano makes is wonderful." He gives Ivan's fingers one final pat before releasing them.

Ivan watches his hand go – he always seems to be studying Feliciano's movements – but he looks suitably entertained, and discards his menu so he can lean forward and clasp his hands under his chin, leaning his elbows on the table. "You've been here before?"

"Ah, yes! Well, no," Feliciano amends. "I mean, I visited him when he was in Parma, of course, but this is the first time since he's moved here!" Feliciano beams. "Isn't this a cute place?"

Ivan's violet eyes are studying him, mouth slightly open like he's in shock. "You've…kept in touch?"

Feliciano nods. "Oh, thank you, Atesh!" He says when their waiter comes back with a bottle of wine. The young man waits for them to try it, and Feliciano grins his approval, but waits for Ivan to nod before the man tops off their glasses.

"Oh, in touch? Well, kind of?" Feliciano says. "But I knew he was moving up here and then when the meeting got scheduled here I just knew I had to visit! I'm glad you came, too, it's much more fun when you have company!" Except for America – well, that's not true, Feliciano likes America a lot, as much – no, not as much as Ivan – except that's different! He just wants to spend a nice night with Ivan, that's all!

There is a strange kind of warmth in Ivan's eyes, and he takes a deep drink of his wine before setting the glass down and leaning forward. "You are very kind," he says, and his smile is nearly sad.

Feliciano cocks his head and smiles, confused. He's sure Ivan is feeling bad about something in the past, something about his people, maybe. "Oh!" Feliciano licks his lips and thinks of a way to cheer up Ivan. He waves his hand. "I'm just hungry! And Italian is the best!" He pauses and waves his hand again, more emphatically this time. "Although there are also other good foods! Er." He shouldn't insult Russia's food, even unknowingly.

The other nation settles back against the wall. "I've not had much Italian food outside of Italy," he confesses, looking around the room. Feliciano almost jumps in, but he bites his lips and lets the other nation speak. Sometimes it's hard to be quiet, but he needs to let Ivan speak up a little more. Feliciano knows he tends to blabber too much, and Ivan has a tendency to let him get away with it! "It's not as good as when you're in that country. You agree?" Ivan looks towards at Feliciano, a knowing smile on his face.

Feliciano nods in agreement. He remembers their trip, and all the good food they'd eaten. "Yes! Although, when you're at a restaurant serving food from where the person is originally from, like here, it's pretty close!"

Their waiter returns with their appetizer, and Feliciano orders the rest of their meal as he and Ivan dig into the crostini. Ivan appears to enjoy it as much as Feliciano, which pleases Feliciano to no end.

They are interrupted rather dramatically by Stefano, who loudly greets Feliciano, declaring that Feliciano does not look a day older than when they'd first met. Feliciano immediately leaps to his feet and they proceed to hug and pat each other on the back, all the while conversing in rapid Italian, which leaves the rest of the restaurant amused by their familiarity and baffled by the overdramatic Italian flair.

Stefano promises the rest of their course will be as good as what he used to make in Parma – _better_, he claims with a wink – and after he leaves Feliciano sits back down with a swelling, proud heart. Even if he is a little bit sad at the same time. Stefano is not the young man Feliciano remembers him to be – he now has a full head of grey hair, and his strong shoulders are slightly curved. However, he's still vivacious and loud, and his skill at cooking has grown over the years.

But still, Feliciano remains the same.

There is a ghost of a smile playing at Ivan's lips, but his eyes seem to reflect some of Feliciano's sadness.

"Hmm?" Feliciano hums a question, taking a fortifying drink of his wine.

"You are good to your people," Ivan says. "Kind," he repeats himself, almost too quietly for Feliciano to hear.

"Oh~" Feliciano tries to wave it off, but it's not as easy the second time around. He pulls a smile up on his face automatically. "Some people would say that is bad!" he jokes, but doesn't get a chance to finish before Ivan's hand clamps around his free hand, the one not holding the wine glass.

"Those nations are fools," he says sharply, and Feliciano wonders _how_ he knew they were nations. "Kindness is…"

"Weak?" Feliciano says, and he wonders why he's speaking of such sad things so honestly, when they're supposed to be having fun and Feliciano is supposed to be distracting Ivan and –

"I'm sorry! I meant, well, nothing!" Feliciano claps a hand to his cheek, almost covering his mouth, which has run away from him. Again.

"No, I'm – " Ivan says fiercely.

They both stop as their waiter comes back, and to Atesh's credit, he just lifts an eyebrow and places their _raviolo aperto_ in between their arms. Perhaps he's immune to the drama! (Or just good at his job.)

"Thanks," Feliciano murmurs weakly, because Ivan hasn't released his hand, yet, and he's staring at Feliciano like he can change his mind through the intensity of his eyes. Feliciano chuckles at the silly thought, and his un-accosted hand steals forward to sneak a bite.

"It's not weak," Ivan argues, almost childishly.

Feliciano chews around the scallops and dough, and swallows before speaking. "Even to you? Someone like you?"

Ivan frowns.

"You're so strong!" Feliciano says, because Russia is one of the strongest nations he knows, besides Germany and America, and finally Ivan releases his hand. Instead of going for his plate, he reaches for his wine glass.

"There are different kinds of strength," he mutters. Feliciano nudges his food towards him, but Ivan does not seem to notice.

"Try one!" Feliciano says after awhile, when it seems like Ivan is done speaking, staring broodingly into space, quick possibly making the rest of the restaurant nervous. And half of his plate is gone, and Feliciano doesn't want to be the only one eating!

They finish their plates in silence, and Feliciano tries a smile again. "How are your sisters?" He asks, searching for another topic, one that Ivan might enjoy.

Ivan's hand pauses, fork scraping the nearly empty plate. "They are well, I think," he says. "You saw Katya at the meeting?"

"Oh, yes!" Feliciano remembers now, how Ivan's sister hovered at the edge of the crowd, and smiled when Feliciano had talked to Ivan.

"And your brother?" Ivan asks as Atesh places their _sformato di panettone_ in front of them and takes their empty plates away. It's a very rich, fancy pudding with a citrus flavor, but Feliciano is not going to complain!

"Romano? Oh, he is the same as always!" Feliciano laughs and Ivan smiles. "You should meet him sometime!" Feliciano does not know why he's just said that, and Ivan gives him a strange look.

"I have met him."

"_Sí_, I know!" Feliciano shoves some pudding into his mouth to give himself a moment to compose what he's trying to say. "I meant, now that you and I are," Feliciano waves his spoon around. They are friends, of course, everyone can see that – and they don't have to _show off_ that they're friends to Romano, but it'd be nice if Feliciano can share his family and his friendships and all the good things in his life with Ivan. He wants to share his life with Ivan, and make Ivan's life as cheerful at the same time! Hadn't he made that promise to himself, not too long ago?

He can't quite phrase it like that, though! "It would be fun!" Feliciano promises. (Although perhaps that's something he shouldn't promise so easily.)

Ivan blinks at him slowly, and studies his pudding, and considers Feliciano's words. "Yes," he says finally, and he's smiling into his pudding. It's so sweet, Feliciano's heart does a triple beat. "I'd like that," Ivan finishes softly.

Feliciano beams. He's so happy to hear that, he can't even hide the goofy grin on his face.

He folds his chin into his palm and finishes his pudding, all the while grinning at Ivan as he does so.


	12. Chapter 12

_the white hot iron of joy_

* * *

"I thought we could all go!" Romano's frown deepens so Feliciano hurries to explain. "Me and Russia _and_ you and Spain!"

"Why, did something happen last night?" Romano looks concerned, and then murderous when Feliciano doesn't immediately respond, starting to make assumptions, as he always does. Well, that happens when you spend so much time with certain nations, Feliciano thinks.

"No! It was great! I really enjoyed the ravioli~ and Russia did too! I just thought we could all go!"

Romano looks contemplative for a long moment. "Are you sure?" He asks, an edge to his voice.

"Of course! What's wrong with good friends spending time together, eating good food and drinking good wine and having a good and wonderful time!" (That may be laying it on a bit thick, Feliciano realizes, but if he projects enough, if he _wants_ it enough, then it'll come true, right?

Ivan needs – okay, Feliciano _wants _him to spend time with his family, his friends, and hopefully one day Feliciano will be invited to do the same with Ivan's sisters. Baby steps first!

And the thing is – he knows Romano isn't unreasonable, and he knows Spain is almost always welcoming. So if Ivan meets anyone first, Feliciano wants it to be them.)

"No, I mean," Romano starts, and then shakes his head. "I just want to make sure you're – you know," he says again with that same rough edge to his voice – which Italy realizes is _worry_, laced with tension, with a touch of fear.

Oh. _Oh_, Feliciano thinks, and his smile slips into something more genuine.

"Oh, _fratello_!" He coos and latches on his brother's neck, smashing their faces together. Romano chokes and curses and flails and Feliciano starts laughing, because his brother is so sweet underneath all that curtness and although Feliciano doesn't _forget_ that his brother loves him, he sometimes feels like it'd be nice to be reminded of this fact more often.

"Dammit, fine! I'll go!" Romano pushes Feliciano off and smooths his hair back into place, minus one springy curl. "_You_ ask Spain, though. I'm not asking that bastard anything, he might get the wrong idea."

Feliciano does so, gladly and Spain is, unsurprisingly, very agreeable to the plan.

("Wine and food!" Feliciano said, "_and_ Romano!" And Spain had laughed and said, "_Sí_, count me in!")

Dinner goes well, Feliciano thinks. Romano curses a lot, and Spain seems to not know when to stop teasing him, and Feliciano has to jump in to placate Romano and keep him from causing dear old Spain grievous harm. Ivan sits back and watches, and mostly keeps his opinions to himself. Feliciano knows he's not comfortable around the others, but he doesn't show it. He smiles a lot, and Feliciano even thinks towards the end that his smiles are a bit more relaxed and real.

"The food was so wonderful!" Feliciano says again, and Romano and Spain nod in agreement before going their own way – but not before Romano gives both Ivan and Feliciano narrow looks, allowing himself to be dragged away by Spain (as much as he _allows_ Spain anything).

That leaves Ivan and Feliciano to their own walk back towards the general direction of their hotels. It's a little bit colder than the climate in Italy, autumn slowly giving way towards winter, and Feliciano presses close to Ivan to avoid the chill, slipping his hand into Ivan's gloved one. They'd talked a lot last night – Feliciano had been emotional after meeting Stefano and once he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop. (Ivan hadn't seemed to mind! Feliciano thinks he'd learned a lot about the nation in that one evening.) Tonight he chatters about art and the new shows he's gone to, and has Ivan gone to any recently? Were they good? Any artists Feliciano would know?

Ivan is mostly quiet, still, and the watchfulness from earlier in the evening lingers. Maybe he is always this way, Feliciano is starting to think. Content to mostly let Feliciano run his mouth and rarely interrupting him, but never with a bored expression on his face. He is extremely hesitant about touching Feliciano first, but when Feliciano pats his back or brushes his knee Ivan is quick to lean into him and only reluctantly breaks contact. It's rather sweet – Feliciano concentrates _only_ on thinking that, because to think Ivan is so starved for touch – he shivers and cuddles closer to Ivan, and Ivan immediately pulls him nearer and tightens his grip around his hand.

"What's the weather like where you live in Russia?" Feliciano asks, and Ivan's lips part in a small smile.

"A little cold, but not so bad, yet," he says, and Italy internally shudders at the _yet_ part – how much worse could it get?

His face must reflect what he's feeling because Ivan looses a small laugh and says, "It's bearable. We have warm coats and vodka. All a nation needs, yes?"

"No wine?"

"None."

Feliciano stares, shocked. "What!? How do you _live_," he starts to wail, but stops when Ivan starts to laugh. A real, true laugh, one that is bright and infectious and Feliciano grins along with him.

"I joke," Ivan says.

Feliciano shakes his head in mock anger at him. He can't help the smile that tugs at his lips, although he tries to keep his scowl. "That's not funny!"

"Your face says otherwise! Yes, it was worth it." Ivan nods, pleased at his own joke.

Feliciano pouts. "You'll see, I'll cook you pasta and have wine that pairs well with it and you'll _love_ it," he says with certainty, and Ivan smiles, amused.

"That sounds truly awful," he says easily, and Feliciano can't help but laugh.

"_Your_ vodka is so_ awful_." Feliciano shudders.

"What!" Ivan looks outraged, but Feliciano can see there is no real fury behind it. "You'll see, I'll..." he pauses for a moment and takes a breath before forging on. "I'll make you _pelmeni_ and pair it with the smoothest vodka you've ever tasted and you'll...love it, too."

Feliciano smiles. "Okay!"

"Okay?" A look of relief quickly flashes across Ivan's face, and Feliciano would have to be _blind_ not to realize the invitation he's just been extended.

"_Sí!_ I look forward to it," Feliciano confirms, squeezing Ivan's gloved hand in his own. They swing to a stop as Feliciano's hotel comes into view. Ivan's is just up the street, Feliciano knows because he checked the list. Feliciano turns to say goodbye, so it's a surprise when Ivan bends down to kiss him instead, lips lightly pressing against Feliciano's.

Feliciano stiffens in shock, and abruptly Ivan pulls back.

"W-what?" Feliciano says at the same time Ivan says, "You –"

There is a painful moment of silence as Feliciano adjusts to this new development. Ivan – he kissed Feliciano – Ivan wants – Feliciano isn't ready! No one ever – he hadn't thought Ivan would want _that_.

(Doe he want that? Feliciano thinks wildly, hands trembling, and his heart is beating a little faster – but not in fear, but with something else.)

Ivan looks regretful – no, _worse._ He looks completely devastated for a brief moment before the mask slips back into place. His eyes become glassy and his smile softens into a mockery of childish joy before he launches into his usual speech about 'becoming one with Russia.' But it's fake, forced sounding. Ivan is protecting his heart because Feliciano isn't responding.

Feliciano _broke_ Ivan's _heart_. He'd seen it, in that small moment, in Ivan's beautiful violet eyes – the reach, the grasp for love from Feliciano, the halt, the quick shift into helplessness into hopelessness, before the violet had flattened into a shade of immutable darkness that hurts Feliciano's eyes, making him blink.

Feliciano feels his own heart constrict in his chest because _no_. No, he doesn't want to _break_ Ivan's heart, he wants it to be _whole_, and _safe_, and _happy_.

"Ivan," Feliciano tries to interrupt, but Ivan has flipped the switch, has dropped the sweetness and moved into the terrifying, looming above Feliciano.

Russia is staring at him now, and the distance between them is _cold_.

This is why Russia – Ivan – _Russia_ has no friends, a small part of him whispers, and Feliciano wants to weep, wants to say it isn't true. Wants it to be otherwise. So he gathers his small kind of courage and fists his hand into the fabric of Ivan's sweater and brings him down, so that Feliciano can properly kiss him back.

His lips are cool – frozen? Feliciano wonders – and motionless, so Feliciano presses harder to warm them up, and waits. It takes a minute, but Ivan _folds_ into him, like a great weight has been released from his shoulders, and he sighs, and his breath is warm against Feliciano's lips.

Feliciano lets him go, leaning back but keeping his hands on his chest.

"Sorry," Ivan says, and that's not what Feliciano expected. Less expected is the ragged, miserable tone that inflects Ivan's voice.

"No! Don't be!" He says, interrupting Ivan's next words.

"I thought –" Ivan pauses at Feliciano's outburst, and seems to draw himself upright. "You don't," he stopped again, hands clenching and unclenching but he doesn't look away. "It isn't necessary. I assumed," he stops again and draws a deep breath, and Feliciano has never seen Ivan look so – _human_.

"What do you mean?" Feliciano says softly, prompting Ivan to go on. It looks painful, whatever he's trying to say, and Feliciano can only guess how hard it must be for him to speak – he has never seen Russia vulnerable, has he?

There's conflict in Ivan's eyes – he looks like he wants to shut down, withdraw, or attack – it shows in his voice, suddenly clipped and forceful.

"I assumed...something. Was happening. Last night, you were – kind," he says, faltering on the last word. "And tonight, you held my hand – you _always_ touch me," he bursts out, and visibly composes himself. "I was not a hundred percent sure, but I assumed it was a – it was something else when we were – laughing, and you accepted my invitation to my house, and I."

Ivan stops, and looks down at Feliciano. "Perhaps it would be better –"

"No!" This time it's Feliciano who interjects. "I didn't know it was a something, okay?" Feliciano keeps thinking _something_ stands for something _else_ – like what, though?

Dinner, touching, laughing – it dawns on Feliciano. Does Ivan mean a _date_?

Feliciano squares his shoulders and gazes up at Ivan. "If it was a date I definitely would have paid, and also not invited Romano or Spain, although I always think they would be fun to do double dates Romano curses too much and Spain makes him curse more than usual and trust me, it never works out."

(Ivan is watching him, carefully, face blank, but his _eyes_ – oh, they speaking volumes to Feliciano!)

"So if it was a date then, well, it wasn't a real one, on a real one I would take you to a nice Italian restaurant and buy the really good wine and have appetizers," and okay those are all things that they had done, so Feliciano hurries onward, waving a hand for emphasis. "_And_ buy a rose from the salesman and give you one, and after we would go get _gelato_ even though it's cold and we would walk along the bridge by the water and listen to the musicians play and when I walked you home I would invite you up for _un_ _caffè _and kiss you when you laughed at my jokes and," Feliciano stops, because really they had done just about all of those things and it had been a date, and.

Feliciano has never been quick, _okay_, everyone knows that!

"And?" Ivan says quietly, voice deep.

"And!" Feliciano says, and Ivan looks a little wary as Feliciano steps a little closer. "I would have been properly prepared!" He raises his hand and tugs a little on Ivan's scarf, and Ivan is leaning down towards him.

"To do...?"

"To make you laugh," Feliciano says with a quirk of a grin, trying to do exactly that, and Ivan smiles, just a little, enough for Feliciano to take that as a yes and kiss him, just a little, barely enough to qualify but more than enough to inform Ivan of his intentions.

(His intentions are, of course, honorable! Just don't ask Romano that.)

Ivan straightens up, but Feliciano doesn't move away – he snuggles closer, putting his head on Ivan's chest, and when Ivan slowly moves his arms around him Feliciano makes a contented sound of approval.

They stay like that for far too long – but Feliciano stopped feeling cold long ago, and Ivan seems to feel the same.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! I'll be posting a NSFW epilogue on my LJ, if you're so inclined. And thank you to the dear OP for posting a wonderful prompt and getting me interested in this pairing. You know who you are! ;)_


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